With the Tides
by ToAshes
Summary: It was never about fitting in, never about being scared or figuring herself out. That's what Dr. Lecter realized the second young Charlotte Blake looked him the eye and told him everything. This wasn't another tortured soul with another sob story. This...oh, this was something much, much more intriguing.
1. Trying Again

**A/N: Short little chapter into something I'm thinking about starting. If this gets enough reviews, I'll continue. Hopefully, this won't be a long piece, a few chapters at the most. But we'll see how it plays out.**

**Title: With the Tides**

**Chapter Title: Trying Again**

**Chapter Rating: G**

**Chapter Warnings: None**

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_"In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade, and he carries the reminder of every glove that laid him down and cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame, "I am leaving, I am leaving," but the fighter still remains..." ~ The Boxer, Mumford & Sons_

**With the Tides**

**Trying Again**

Her long hair was up in a sloppy, but endearing ponytail as she stood in his doorway, her parents too close behind her. She wore jeans that hugged tightly to the curves of her hips and legs and button-down dress shirt not much different from his own except that it was blood red and his was a pale blue. And she smelled of mint and cinnamon, no perfume could be detected, just simple mint and cinnamon – a delightful combination, really. One he had yet to try.

She was probably only about seventeen, the youth in her eyes and face and the awkward curves of a still-too-small body suggested. She would be quite beautiful when she filled out the shape of her hips; she would have that charming hourglass figure every woman dreamed of having.

Her eyes were dull but intelligent. There was something in them that he could not quite label. Not yet, anyway. Those pale blue hues were hollow, almost lifeless as they took him in much the same way he regarded her: calculating, formulating, planning.

"Do you have an appointment?" He questioned, allowing a small smile to tug at one corner of his mouth at the young female, showing a warmth he could already tell she needed.

"Uh, I think so," she bit her bottom lip nervously and shifted her weight. A timid little thing, she was.

"Of course we do, don't be so ridiculous," the woman behind her spoke angrily, her voice like a high-pitched shrill.

"Mom, please, will you just stop," the younger one complained, casting a worriedly apologetic look to the much taller male. "I'm, uh, Charlotte Blake. We, uh, talked on the phone, Dr. Lecter?"

Where she had gotten such cautious manners from, Hannibal decided he had to know. Certainly, they did not come from her mother.

"Ah, yes, Miss Blake. I was not aware this would be group session," he raised his brow in suspicion. "I would have recommended someone else for that."

"It wasn't supposed to be," he just barely caught the mumbled words before she cleared her throat and rocked by on her heels.

"Do you think I'm going to let some middle-aged man talk to my daughter _alone_?" The other female sneered, looking him up and down while the man beside her crossed his arms in a huff.

The younger female snorted out a rather amusing laugh. "Really? A man _trained_ to figure out what the hell is wrong with me can't talk to me, but _dad_ can? That's so protective of you, Mom. Yes, thank you for the worthless insight. Now, can I get on with this otherwise pointless meeting? Thanks, bye." She slid into the room between Hannibal and the door frame, under his arm while somehow managing not to brush up against him, and closed the door quickly and quietly behind her. She was practiced in such quick maneuvering, then.

"I'm sorry for all that. She, uh, she's not the most useful tool in the box," she fumbled over the words as she turned to face the psychiatrist. "And, well, she's half the reason I'm here."

"And the other half?" The gestured for her to take a seat in one of the leather chairs, which she took a bit uncomfortably.

"My father," it was accompanied by flick of her wrist to the door, another personality washing over her like a cloak, hiding the skittish, little girl she was outside. Now, she was self-assured, aware, and very much in control of everything, even the remaining variable of another human in the room. "Well, they're the reason I need a psychiatrist, anyway."

"But not the reason you're _here_," he finished for her, to which she gave a rather captivating smirk.

"As perceptive as they say," she commented absently before standing to wander about the room. "You have a nice office, Doctor Lecter. I'm quite fond of the finer literature, myself," she shot him a smile over her shoulder.

"Yes, but again, that is not why you are here," Hannibal, too, stood, watchful eyes following her throughout the room.

She turned to him fully, canting her head to the side. "Are you always so to the point, Doctor Lecter? After all, I am paying you for this." But she shrugged and retook her seat. "I'm _here_ because, well, you, I believe, are the only one that will believe me and I need _someone_ to know my real story. Someone needs to know the truth because there's nothing I can do about it."

"I fail to see the connection," he leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms. There was something peculiar about this female, some sort of war between halves, much like there was in Will Graham.

A deep sigh escaped full lips before she looked up at him. Her face was hard and cold, but her eyes held a silent desperation.

"I'm sure you noticed by now that I'm not exactly..._normal_. I'm actually pretty messed up, but that's not the point. The point is I've gone to others for this. Doctors from both psychological and medical fields, the police, the feds, bloody everyone!" The frustration was clear in her features before she wiped it away with a hand over her face. "I've done my research, Doctor Lecter. And trust me, a woman on a mission does better research than Homeland Security."

They engaged in a shared chuckle and he relaxed his stance. Perhaps he truly was the only one who could help her. And should he disapprove, she was already well within his trap.

"So, what is it you wish for me to help you with?" He braced his weight on either side of him on the desk.

"I..." her voice trailed off, eyes suddenly distant. He knew that look. But it was gone as quickly and suddenly as it appeared. With an almost violent shake of her head, she looked up at him apologetically. "I thought this would be easier, but...I'm sorry, it's just difficult to talk about. Most people just laugh me off."

When it seemed that was all she was going to say, he rounded her chair to place his hands on her shoulders from behind. She tensed under his touch, but when he lightly squeezed, she seemed to melt.

"I can assure you, Miss Blake, I am not most people." His voice lowered until was nothing but a gentle stroke against her ear. Another sigh and he could tell she was ready, so he simply, slowly, took his seat across from her, leaning forward just slightly.

Her eyes met his only briefly before she spoke. "I'm just going to be blunt; I'm not sure how else to say this. So, I hope you'll forgive me for the abruptness." She took another deep breath, straightened herself, and caught his gaze with her own smolderingly curious one. "I killed someone."

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**A/N: Now, if you'll please click that pretty button and tell me what you think. Thanks, loves.**


	2. Story of Her Own

**A/N: sorry this took so long, but here it is. I couldn't just leave this one. Wouldn't leave me alone. Remember: Reviews Are Love.**

**Insert some witty disclaimer I'm too lazy to write.**

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**Story of Her Own**

"_I killed someone."_

Her voice was calm and steady while her eyes searched his face for any sign that she had been wrong about him. She'd done her research, going so far as to survey his home one night when her parents were unaware. That was how she knew he could help her with her particular problem.

He shifted in his place, unperturbed, but curious. Allowing his eyes to widen slightly, he let a bit of shock register on his face.

"Please, Doctor, don't insult us both by pretending to be alarmed. We are both well aware that, even if I wanted to, I am far from strong enough to take down a man of your size without some element of surprise to assist me," she stood again, turning her back to him and holding her arm up to run her fingers along the bottom of the wood railing of the loft above. "Such a face-to-face meeting would be a rather stupid way of trying to kill you, don't you think?"

"It has not stopped others," he commented, watching her move easily, almost distractedly through the room as if she had been there before.

"Ah, that's right, Tobias Budge, wasn't it?" She glanced back over her shoulder, shooting him another smirk. "I told you, I've done my research on you."

Hannibal simply watched her explore the room. Her eyes took in everything, constantly shifting and calculating. The ponytail bobbed behind her, swaying this way and that, brushing the back of her neck in gentle sweeps. So, he relaxed himself, allowed her to see almost his true self.

"I don't expect much from you, Doctor Lecter. I just...need someone to shut their trap and listen for once. And now that I've your full attention, I think we can skip the formalities of the situation and get right down to the story, hm?" She turned to him and canted her head to the side in a move that seemed more canine than human.

"And what makes you think I won't report this conversation to the authorities?" He crossed his arms over his broad chest, mimicking the tilt of her head.

This was when her smirk turned into a dark grin. "Because I've been to every police station between here and Richmond and have still managed to make it here. Because you know that I know something. Something about you. Something that would be enough to keep you quiet should you get the urge to turn me in but not enough for you to hurt me." She inclined her head slightly. "But most of all, because you are curious. You want to know what I did, what happened, what I've become because of it."

And that was where she pinned him, like a spider catching a fly and weaving its web around it. He had known that someday his curiosity would get the best of him, and, yet, no one had realized it. That this infallible man had a weakness: his curiosity. And here this small girl was, reading him like a children's book. Certainly, he wasn't that easily deciphered. Was his running around with Will making him soft? Surely not.

"I know you better than anyone else, Doctor Lecter. I know what you do when you're not here and twisting that poor Mr. Graham –" she added a mock pout when she spoke of the other man, poking her bottom lip out and fluttering her eyelashes a few times – "around your finger. I know your dirty little secret," she leaned over the back of one of the leather chairs, piercing eyes boring into his. "But I'm not here to blackmail you. Be a bit..._rude_, wouldn't it?" The corner of her mouth twitched up into a dark smirk that didn't seem to fit on her youthful face.

His hands clenched the lip of his desk, his eyes hardened dangerously. He was so close to wrapping his hand around her throat and squeezing, but, she had been correct; he was curious. And his curiosity may just well be the end of him one of these days.

"I just need you to listen. To pay attention," for a moment her voice softened, simply asking him to take her seriously. But as she pushed herself off the chair and took a few step closer to the psychiatrist, a shadow crossed over her face. "I've a story to tell, Doctor, and I don't take kindly to being ignored." Her words were firm, sharp, and clipped, but the voice that uttered them wavered slightly in what almost sounded like fear.

His agreement had already been guaranteed, and yet an expression of utter relief crossed over her as she retook her spot in the leather seat. Looking up at him, her eyes – probably her most expressive feature, he noted – asked him to sit in their barely-hidden discomfort. Clearing his throat, he did just that, sitting across from her and leaning forward just enough to show interest – that he was, in fact, listening.

"Whenever you are ready," he finally spoke, twisting his pen to bring out the ink, his leather-bound notebook balanced on his knee.

"Two years ago," she started, watching his hand as he began scrawling his observations, "It wasn't just my parents and me." Her shoes, he noticed, were off her feet and tucked neatly under her chair, which he was thankful for when she brought her foot up next to her. "We used to run a bed and breakfast out of our house in Richmond. It was actually pretty great, always meeting new people. Most of them kept in touch, sent pictures of where they ended up.

"But not everyone was as kind or charming as they seemed," she rested her chin on her bent knee, eyes locked down and somewhere to the right of his chair as if the patch of carpeting there was just too fascinating to ignore. "He was a sweet man, had a heart of gold, everyone around him said. He was maybe 35 years old, had some skid mark of a goatee under his lip that just irritated the living hell out of me, and maybe I should have been able to tell something was off right then. Who utterly loathes someone for shitty facial hair? But I couldn't help hating him. Something was _wrong_," her lips pursed, eyes narrowing.

"Maybe it was the wolfish way he grinned at every woman that walked past him, maybe it was the almost genuine way he complimented me when I played the guitar after supper, to be honest I don't know. I told myself I just really disliked that damned skid mark and if he would just shave his face, I wouldn't hate him." Her other leg came up to tuck under her small frame.

"Yet you know this to be untrue," it wasn't a question he spoke but a simple sentence that showed he was still listening. To be honest he was becoming a little too enthralled with this tale.

"Of course I did. I am not a person that is easily lied to, even, it seems, by myself," she huffed and brought her arms around her leg. "But I refused to recognise it for what it was. He stayed the longest of any guest we'd ever had. He actually rented out the room from us on a monthly basis, half way moved into our house."

"You felt he invaded your home. It was no longer safe," he offered the insight he could with the facts given to him.

"It wasn't _home_, Dr. Lecter, and it was _never_ safe. Mom liked to get stoned and invite her pervert friends over, Dad was too busy chasing younger skirts to care. I never had the solitude I craved, never had the loving parents all the other kids gushed about. Hell, no one had ever even told me happy birthday," she dismissed his conclusion and turned her head away from him. "No, he didn't invade; I lived in a hotel for Christ's sake. He just seemed...a little too smooth, too nice. If there's anything I've learned in my years of dealing with people, it's that everyone is just out for themselves. He couldn't have honestly been that good-natured."

"And what makes you think that? Can there not be genuinely good people?" He questioned lightly, sifting through what he was learning, writing down everything noteworthy.

"Because people aren't inherently good. Humanity has a distinct pension for evil, Dr. Lecter, as I'm sure you are well aware, given your field of expertise." She offered a small, sad smile. "I, for one, have yet to see any proof to the contrary." Shifting a bit so that both legs were nestled gently under her, she braced a thin, bony elbow on the arm of the chair, her chin perched atop her palm in a thoughtful expression.

With this new point of view, he studied her profile. Her body had seemed almost awkwardly underdeveloped when he first saw her standing in the doorway. But now as he took in the features of her youthful yet wary face: the slightly sunken eyes, the rings beneath the dull green hues, the sharp lines of her cheekbones; he now saw the truth behind her under-filled curves. She was devastatingly underweight. He made a mental and written note to gently question her eating habits.

"So, he was a good man. Maybe. Who knows? He could have been a total arse. But no one will know now," there was a distinct lack of guilt in her voice that he also mentally and physically noted, but there was some kind of sense of genuine regret. "I almost wish I had taken the time to figure him out before I killed him." She shrugged, still staring off and away from the psychiatrist.

"But not so much as to feel guilty," he observed aloud, becoming more and more interested the more she spoke. She had to know the level of insight she was giving him, how much access to her mind that she was granting him.

"Why feel guilty? By all perceived morals, yes, I did something wrong, bad, _evil_. But what are morals but an interpretation of life that humanity has collectively decided is the right way to live? There are no truly _correct_ morals or decisions. Everything is subjective, a different shade of grey," she canted her head to the side in that canine way as she turned her gaze back to him as if genuinely confused by his question. "Guilt is only felt when one _perceives _something done was wrong, but it, too, is subjective. No, I do not feel guilty for what I did to that man. Nor do I feel pity for the family he no doubt left behind, or shame for feeling utterly indifferent about my actions."

Hannibal almost let the corner of his mouth twitch upward in an approving smirk. Almost. He contained the expression well and instead resorted to shifting in his seat and resting an ankle on his knee. A posture relaxed enough to show no disagreements with her statement without outwardly agreeing. She could take it as she pleased.

"I don't know exactly triggered it, I don't know why I did it, to be truly honest with you. I was just standing behind him in the kitchen when he muttered something I couldn't quite hear. But the tone of it struck a chord in me, the last bit of resolve I had in me. I'm not a very emotional girl, Doctor Lecter. In fact, most find me disturbingly indifferent to most everything. But there was something about that man. He didn't deserve the life he was wasting away. I don't know why he didn't, but he didn't," her eyes narrowed again before she shook her head and shrugged. In an eerily stoic voice she added: "So I stabbed him in the back."

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